I am an american born indian.
I step outside into the concrete jungle, the sun shine hits my face. I know its rays are also hitting the face of some oklahoma farm boy hard at work. For a second, a twang of pain, as my eyes adjust to the life giving rays. I , in my faded blue jeans (which are made in america), checkered red and blue shirt, some distorted motif of american flag. my buffalo stetson and boots. I grab my cigarettes from the pocket of my faded green army field jacket, the seams are screaming, from the years of use. I reach into my pocket and grab my lighter, years and thousands of cigarettes later its still as reliable as my wife. With my cigarette between my teeth I light it and take my first drag for the morning. I exhale and I cant tell if its the tobacco or the frigid cold that's escaping my lungs. I am a spitting image of the stereotypical texan. I am a stranger in a stranger land, a land of bills and commerce. I am free, dedicated to my friends and blood, and if it was up to me i would have my 20 gauge in the window of my truck. I am an american born indian, at least that's what i answer when those inquisitive strangers with the same skin color ask me where im from. But to those that know me, that have shared a beer with me and heard my southern twang, I am an American. An American Cowboy.